That you can see the rain raging outside my window, a torrent of tears that had crashed against the dam for too long. That you can hear the wind howl and swirl and threaten to tear down every triviality that we have built around us. That you can feel the walls creaking and letting in the cold that climbs up and clouds our thoughts with the sharp reminder of mortality.
So that I won’t have to write it down.
In the torrential rains of winter Sydney, in which people were losing their balance against the sheer force of the wind and rain, in which broken umbrellas were being stuffed into trash bins in the streets, in which wet faces grinned at each other in sympathy, I took the bus to Hyde Park , got a little lost, and walked my way to the Art Gallery of New South Wales. For three reasons: uno, I needed out. I have precious little time left in Sydney and so much left to see; dos, I’m doing my portfolio for poetry class on art galleries, and after weeks of building it up, I think it’s time I actually went into one; tres, just to prove to myself that I haven’t lost the tendency to do something random and impetuous, and downright irrational.
(The inspiration came after seeing a friend completely drenched.)
And so I was indeed completely drenched by the time I reached the Gallery. And my umbrella still lives, unbroken, unbowed, hanging proudly over my door. We have braved the winds and rains of the Antipodes together.
Two guys playing chess in Hyde Park in the middle of sheet after white sheet of rain (which you can’t see in the picture).
The Art Gallery of New South Wales. (Free admission!)
The interior of the ground level.
The Van Gogh in the gallery.
The conclusion reached is that despite feeling slightly silly in the middle of the whole affair, I haven’t lost my touch.